


An Act of Retribution

by bees_stories



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John Watson, First Aid, Hurt/Comfort, Revenge, chemical burns, forced to cause harm, injured!Sherlock, medical drama, series 4 speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Moriarty felt obliged to honour his brother's promise to burn out Sherlock Holmes' heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Act of Retribution

***

One hundred years ago Jim Moriarty, the late Jim Moriarty, that is, might have been considered an idiot savant. In some respects he had been spectacularly clever, working feats of criminal sleight of hand that on their surface were nothing short of breathtaking. Yet at the same time, he had been at his core nothing more than a frustrated child, prone to throwing his toys from his pram or holding his breath until he turned blue, if he didn't get his way. Contemporary psychiatric professionals, those who had the opportunity to interview him whilst he was a guest of Her Majesty's intelligence service, were still trying to work out where he fit on which spectrum, and would probably continue to debate their theories for years to come, twisted geniuses being a perennially favourite topic at the club, especially on long winter's evenings.

His twin brother James, the incumbent head of the Moriarty crime network, who was currently plaguing the nightmares of Scotland Yard detectives and members of the Home Office, was a different sort all together. There was nothing capricious or childish about the man who observed the preparations that had been made for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. He nodded his satisfaction and then checked his watch. Time was money and there was only so much of it he could expend on projects of a personal nature. Even if the project did fall under the banner of 'family obligation'. 

"Bring in the prisoners." 

Tied, gagged and drugged to a state of unconsciousness, Sherlock and John were brought into a disused space that in its lifetime had housed many sorts of enterprises from gymnasium to illicit disco. They were carried on the shoulders of two smartly dressed henchmen whose physique and demeanour would, in other circumstances, have marked them as minor sporting celebrities rather than anything more sinister. "Mr Holmes on the table, Rollo," Moriarty instructed. "Give Doctor Watson the chair, Claus." 

The pair went smoothly into action, depositing the men they had earlier kidnapped as instructed. Sherlock was efficiently laid out on a stainless steel laboratory table. Above it, a pair of glass cylinders and a network of interconnecting tubing was suspended. There was a dispensing mechanism centred over Sherlock's heart; a long curling length of glass that ended in a narrow-mouthed dropper. A switch was placed carefully in his right hand. A second switch was placed, with equal care, in his left. 

The chair in which John Watson had been placed was a similarly fiendish contrivance. Two 9mm pistols were mounted on arms that Claus swung into place, once he had secured restraining bands around the unconscious doctor's head, arms, and torso. One gun was aimed directly at John's temple. The other straight at his heart. 

"Wake them up," Moriarty said.

Sherlock and John were slapped awake. They blinked their way slowly back to consciousness. John swore quietly under his breath when he realised their predicament. "I thought you said he was the sane twin," he grumbled to Sherlock. 

Moriarty shrugged. "I regret the theatre, Doctor Watson, but as this is an act of retribution for my late and perhaps not entirely lamented brother, I feel it's appropriate it be carried out in a way he might appreciate." 

"The things we do for family," Sherlock remarked dryly. Actually, that was a small mercy. This James Moriarty, with his tendency towards expedience rather than theatre, should have, by all rights, just had them shot unceremoniously in the head and dumped in an alleyway.

"Indeed," Moriarty replied with a knowing smile. "No doubt that's a point on which we can agree, Mr Holmes. Both our brothers have brought us to places that perhaps we'd rather not have gone." He shrugged in such a way that suggested he really did regret what was about to transpire and then he tore Sherlock's shirt open, sending buttons flying and exposing his bare flesh to the cool night air. He pointed at the mechanism hanging over the table. "Now, as you'll observe, above you is a dispenser . It contains concentrated hydrochloric acid. Once I press this switch, it will begin to dispense drop by drop." 

Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction as he absorbed the potential of the situation, but he otherwise remained impassive as he waited for the rest of the plot to be revealed. 

"Now, because I want you to fully appreciate the severity of your situation, the first drops that fall will be diluted with a buffering solution. They will sting, but not cause serious injury." 

"How generous of you," Sherlock conceded graciously. 

"But wait," Moriarty said. "I haven't got to the best bit. The part really worthy of my dearly departed brother."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," Sherlock tipped his chin, the only part of his body unrestrained by steel bands "Do continue." 

"If you decide you'd rather not have acid eat through your skin until it finally burns a hole through your heart, you may shoot Doctor Watson." He turned towards John. "Oh, don't think you've been left out, Doctor! Do you see that button there, the one around which the fingers of your right hand are curled?" 

John glanced down, although it was difficult since his head was strapped with metal bands to the back of the chair. 

"If you wish to save your own life, you can press it." 

John, though groggy from the tranquilliser that was used during the kidnapping was seething with anger. To be taken off the street without warning had been abjectly humiliating. He wasn't feeling inclined to do anything to ingratiate himself with their host, and yet, for Sherlock's sake, he decided to keep his temper in check. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt clumsy. He suspected they had somewhat overestimated the incapacitating dose in his case because Sherlock seemed to be shaking off its effects with ease. He tried to speak, but the words would not come. He tried again. The idea of willingly burning Sherlock alive was too horrific to contemplate seriously. "And what happens if I do?" 

"Then you go free and Sherlock Holmes dies."

"But there are two triggering mechanisms," Sherlock pointed out. 

"I was just getting to that," Moriarty said, without exhibiting the impatience that his brother might have shown in a similar circumstance. "The other mechanism is a self-trigger. Press it, dispense the acid, or in the doctor's case, fire the gun aimed at his head, and you will commit the ultimate act of altruism, saving the life of your dearest friend at the expense of your own." Moriarty regarded the pair of them impassively. "Your choice. Either way, you will be destroyed, Mr Holmes, and my obligation to my brother will be satisfied." 

He gazed down into Sherlock's face, gave him another resigned smile and then jerked his head towards the doorway. Rollo and Claus retreated on command, and after making a small adjustment to the acid dispensing mechanism, Moriarty followed. "I regret I cannot stay and observe which path you choose, but some moments are best left private and I am needed elsewhere. Goodbye, Mr Holmes. Doctor Watson. I regret we had to meet under such unfortunate circumstances." 

Hydrochloric acid began to wend its way through a coil of glass tubing where it mixed with the promised diluting agent. Sherlock watched its progress, his mind working furiously as he considered and discarded possible solutions to their dilemma. The diluted acid formed a drop, and then it hung suspended for a long and torturous moment. Finally it fell and landed on Sherlock's exposed chest. He reached a decision. "John, do you trust me?" 

John gaped, wondering how, after everything they had been through, Sherlock could ask such a painful question. And then he realised that because they had been through so much, and because of what Sherlock had done in the past, he might feel it a valid concern. "We're about to die and you want to know if I've still got trust issues?" He huffed out a breath and came to the conclusion that this being Sherlock, the question was probably rhetorical. "Of course I trust you." 

"Good," Sherlock said. Another drop of acid fell. It too was diluted, but a fraction less so than the one that fell before it. "Then press your button and release the acid."

"What? No!" John attempted to fight against his bonds, looking futilely for some other method of escape. The surge of adrenaline that flooded his system cleared his head of the last of the effects of the drugs and left a frantic feeling in its place.

"John, the acid that is dripping out of the dispenser is practically harmless. I'd do it myself, except I'd still be bound to the table with no means of escape." 

Another drop formed at the mouth of the tube and hung suspended as John clamped his lips over further protests and sucked in a calming breath through his nose instead. "Right. On three." 

The drop fell. It stung with enough intensity that Sherlock winced. "Make it two." 

John nodded, although Sherlock couldn't see the movement. He took another steadying breath and prayed that there wasn't some angle that Sherlock had overlooked. "One. Two." He mashed down on the trigger with his thumb and when the metal bands around his head and body released, he leapt from the chair, stumbling on still compromised feet as a stream of acid hissed out of the glass tube over Sherlock's chest. Sherlock cried out as drops containing a greater concentration of HCL than buffering solution struck his bare skin. John took a mighty leap forward and made contact with the table long enough to send it flying across the room. The deadly stream of concentrated acid sent up a cloud of dust and steam as it hit the concrete floor.

"Sherlock!" John cried as he fell to his knees, skinning them painfully. The table came to rest against a padded wall, a relic of the room's days as a sparring ground for would-be heavyweight champions. Sherlock tried to marshal his composure, not an easy thing as the acid's sting became a maddening pain and the scent of burning hair and skin began to fill his nostrils. 

John regained his feet and stumbled to Sherlock's side. With shaking hands and uncertain fingers, he found the releases for the cuffs that bound Sherlock's head and limbs to the table. He helped Sherlock to sit up and then yanked his torn shirt and ruined jacket the rest of the way off his body, mitigating at least some of the acid damage by removing its source. "Come on. We've got to get you some help." 

Their mobiles had been confiscated, crushed underfoot by the pair of bruisers who shadowed Moriarty. John put his arm around Sherlock and helped him off the table and down a long flight of uneven steps. They emerged on an unfamiliar street. Frantically, John surveyed the area looking for an area patrol car or even a taxi. He saw neither. His eyes lit on a corner shop. He dragged Sherlock towards it. "Come on. I've got to do something about those burns." 

They struggled inside. The girl behind the till, not yet out of her teens and sporting a vivid magenta crew cut, barely looked up from her mobile. Her black lacquered fingertips flew over the screen, texting or playing a video game, John didn't really have time to figure out which and he didn't really care. He pulled items from the shelves: bottles of water, paper towels, boxes of baking soda, and a pair of washing up gloves to protect his hands. They had a small stock of first aid items. He snatched antibiotic ointment and gauze squares and tape and carried the lot over to Sherlock. As he began emergency treatment, soaking paper towels in water and then coating them liberally with baking soda, the shop girl finally looked up from her screen.

"Oi! You haven't paid for those! I'm calling the police!"

"Good idea!" John said as he applied his neutralising dressing to Sherlock's burns. "Better call for an ambulance while you're at it." 

"No ambulance," Sherlock said. He glanced down at his wounds, assessing the damage. "There's nothing more serious than second degree burns, inconvenient but not life threatening."

"Who's the doctor here?" John asked, even though Sherlock wasn't wrong. Still, the trail of acid burns that spattered across Sherlock's torso were nothing to be shrugged off. They needed more comprehensive treatment than he could render in a corner shop. 

Fortunately, someone else must have observed John struggling with Sherlock and notified the police. A pair of constables burst through the doorway. John sighed with relief, but kept working as he explained. "He's been attacked. They used acid. I'm a doctor." 

"Get Lestrade," Sherlock said, reminding John of his oversight.

"Right." John rinsed Sherlock's burns again to make sure he'd removed all the acid. "Could you notify Inspector Greg Lestrade at the Met? He needs to know," he said, rattling off the Inspector's personal mobile number as he gingerly blotted Sherlock's wounds dry and then after rinsing his gloves clean, began to generously apply the antibiotic ointment with deft fingers. 

One of the constables had been busy on his radio, sending a constant stream of information back to Central Dispatch. He knelt down at Sherlock's side. "Rest easy, sir, ambulance is on their way." 

Sherlock scowled. "I don't want an ambulance. I don't need to go to hospital." He picked up a square of gauze and held it in place against his chest expectantly waiting for John to tape it down. When John scowled back at him, Sherlock picked up a roll of tape and fixed the bandage himself. 

"He's a horrible patient," John said absently to the constable. He shrugged and offered a resigned smile to the room at large before going back to his work, taping a series of smaller bandages in place. Outside, an unmarked car rolled up to a stop. Lestrade and Donovan got out, crowding into the tiny shop. 

"Good," Sherlock said. "Our ride. Hello, Lestrade." 

The shop assistant muscled out from behind her counter, picking up discarded boxes and bits of packaging off the floor at John's side and putting them into a basket. She then began to ring up the items as an ambulance pulled in behind Lestrade's car and Sherlock, more gracefully than should have been possible given his ordeal, climbed to his feet. The two constables, glad to leave what was apparently a situation in senior hands, eased out of the shop taking the ambulance attendant with them. 

"That's twelve pounds forty," the shop assistant announced. 

Across the way, the top floor of the building Sherlock and John had escaped from burst into flame, obliterating any trace evidence James Moriarty or his henchmen had inadvertently left behind.

Sherlock listed sharply as his knees buckled. John dove underneath Sherlock's arm to catch his weight before he could fall. He gave Donovan a pleading look. "I'll pay you back." 

Donovan gave John a thin-lipped look of disapproval in return, but pulled her wallet from her handbag and settled up with the shop assistant, who relieved that the fuss finally seemed to be over, rung up the purchase and then picked up her mobile once more, sending out a series of tweets detailing the bizarre and totally random disruption to her evening.

"You're sure you don't want to go to hospital?" Lestrade asked Sherlock. He turned and examined John, checking to make sure that he wasn't covering injuries of his own and frowned at the sight of blood seeping through the knees of his trousers. "Are you all right, John?" 

Sherlock shook his head firmly. John replied. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just get him home." 

Lestrade waved the waiting ambulance crew away as the screams of the fire service sirens grew near. He glanced across at the burning building with a worried brow before helping John load the injured detective into the back of his car. After Donovan slammed the passenger side door, they finally pointed the car towards Baker Street.

They journeyed in silence. Sherlock, now that he was secure that their destination was home rather than hospital, sagged against John's side with his eyes closed. 

John shifted, allowing Sherlock to slump more comfortably onto his shoulder. He pulled to mind an inventory of the medical supplies stocked at 221B that he would need to continue to treat the ugly burns that had marked his friend's pale flesh with angry red blisters; antibiotics, proper dressings, and something for the not inconsiderable pain. List made, he allowed himself to rest and marshal his strength. Tonight James Moriarty had thrown down a gauntlet. A gauntlet that Sherlock would be compelled to pick up. And John knew when the chase was renewed, he would be at Sherlock's side, because someone had to be there to pick up the pieces.

End


End file.
